


"My Dear Boy"

by SweatySinner



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Age Play, Age Play Caregiver Aziraphale (Good Omens), Age Play Little Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), LATER, M/M, Non-Sexual Age Play, Omorashi, Other, Pining, Pining Aziraphale (Good Omens), Post-Apocalypse, Slow Burn, Tenderness, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), agere, i'll probably add smut eventually.., not in the first chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2020-11-27 08:09:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20945120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweatySinner/pseuds/SweatySinner
Summary: In which Aziraphale is in love with many things about Crowley. Most of them he's fine with. He's a bit more shy aboutA) Being full of lust like a filthy sinnerB) Being hopelessly endeared by Crowley's more childish behaviors.He desperately wants to scoop his demon friend up and take care of him but he doesn't know how to talk about his feelings because he is dumb.AKA: Author wanted slow burn and romance and age play rolled up into a softness burrito.





	1. The Many Things He Adores~

There were many habits and quirks of Crowley’s that Aziraphale enjoyed. He loved the demon’s quick, sarcastic tongue; that charming balance of quick wit and confused word-jumble that made up the serpent's half of their conversations. He was thrilled by Crowley’s boldness. And though he wouldn’t admit it, he took great pleasure in that demonic sense of mischief, excitement, and thrill. He enjoyed his friend’s amusement at human follies, the harmless ways he would torment them, the absurd trouble he’d get into, and even his reckless driving. (He _really_ would never admit to liking that one.) He even _admired_ some things about Crowley. Despite what he would have people believe, Crowley could be compassionate, considerate, careful, and _brave_. He was brave in ways Aziraphale had always struggled to be.

After Armageddon, these were all traits Aziraphale was at peace with enjoying about Crowley. He hadn’t shared all of these compliments with the demon, sure, but he was finally comfortable mentally wrapping them up into the general sentiment of 'companionship'. Friendship. Love. The comfortable, cozy kind of love that silently hangs in the air between the oldest of friends.

However, there were a couple sets of traits Aziraphale also enjoyed about Crowley that he pointedly tried to _not_ think about.

First of all, unsurprising to most, Aziraphale was drawn to some of the more _sinful_ aspects of his friend: the Serpent of Eden, The Original Tempter. At times it seemed like everything about Crowley, from his wavy red locks to his snake-skin boots was dripping with sensual serpentine temptations. He had a wicked smirk and a graceful, sinewy neck that just _begged_ to be marked up with tender suckling kisses and harsh bites. His slender waist slipped downward to impossibly graceful hips, his skin stretched tight over the curves of his bones. He had a walk that could kill, and wonderfully long legs he would drape carelessly across whatever he was sitting upon, as if he was simply unable to sit straight. Aziraphale had been tucking the notion of carnal indulgence away so long he didn’t really know how to process those thoughts.

Secondly, there was a handful of… rather sweet traits that Aziraphale felt differently about. Traits that made him smile. That softened him right to the core of his being.

Crowley had always been filled with curiosity, wonder, and creativity. Though nowadays he had wrapped himself in layer upon layer of sarcasm and feigned indifference, underneath it all there was a beautiful, wide eyed, fantastical way he saw the world. Aziraphale could see it glimmer through whenever they looked at the stars. Whenever the humans showed their ingenuity and changed the world with their inventions. When they talked about ducks, or when he had first learned about keeping houseplants in the 70’s. Aziraphale had first seen it at the very beginning, in Eden, when he had admitted to giving the flaming sword away. The unabashed wonder in the demon’s face had caught his attention, and he had been silently watching for it to appear again ever since.

And it did. Throughout the ages, Aziraphale fell in love with a great many silly things that brought that look back to Crowley’s face. They way he would pester the angel for answers about heaven. The way he’d play pretend with the local children. (Usually he was also tempting them into harmless variants of delinquency while he was at it.) They way he’d watch beautiful performances with Aziraphale with simultaneous rapt attention and fidgety distraction. How much he enjoyed naps, despite their complete and utter pointlessness. The angel also quickly found himself endeared by Crowley’s impatience. His restlessness. His propensity to argue and question, and then pout when he was shot down.

All these things stirred feelings in Aziraphale he could only describe as… Soft. Affectionate. And strangely nurturing. He found himself wanting to share in Crowley’s sense of wonder at the world. To take his hand and help him shed the layers of sarcasm and defensive humor. There was something oddly innocent about the demon. Which of course sounded absurd, considering, well, _demons_. Aziraphale desperately wanted to kindle that little flame of innocent joy and wonder into life. And it led to mental images of gathering the redhead in his arms and showing him all the gentleness and patience in the world- being close to make him feel safe, and encouraging his interests with glee and enthusiasm.

These feelings were more difficult to parse than his attraction was because at the very least, humans fell in love, and lusted over each other all the time. From the beginning of Earth’s history there had been endless love stories to assure him that he was not alone in his forbidden longing. And to be fair, much of this particular feeling was easily described as the vague ‘love’ that would still work in say- a love story. But the particulars in this sense of warmth and nurturing care? The closest human relationship to describe _those_ feelings was that between parent and child. And when he took a step away from his own thoughts for a moment, it seemed absurd indeed to feel about Crowley as he would a child. Crowley was, after all, an ancient and powerful occult being. He was at least as old as Aziraphale himself was. It was fair to think of humans that way, he thought. Angels tended to speak to humans and angels placed under their command with a paternal sense of authority and patience. The way Gabriel spoke to him came to mind, but it also made him shiver with discomfort. But feeling that way about Crowley? The prospect sounded odd.

So, he kept those feelings to himself. Both the parent-like sense of care and the pangs of attraction he had. He also didn’t quite know how to reconcile both of those feelings existing at once. He did slip up occasionally. He had called Crowley ‘my dear boy’ a couple of times. Thankfully the demon never commented. By 2018, he had mostly managed to push the thoughts to the back of his mind. Even with the increased time they spent together as the Nanny and the Gardener. It _had_ helped that during those six years, Crowley had been adopting such an obviously parent-like role. And while that itself was fascinating to watch, especially since she was so surprisingly _good at it_, it did mitigate Aziraphale’s impulse to watch her as he would a child, thank Heaven. Or Hell. Whatever.

He didn’t have to confront it again until a particular drunken night, about six weeks after the apocalypse, in mid-Autumn. A chilly breeze swirled outside the A. Z. Fell and Co. bookshop, jealous of the warm golden light from inside the building. Some came from the old Edison bulbs dangling over the dusty bookcases. And some came streaming out from the backroom.  
  
“Aesop was a right tosser, you know.” Crowley complained casually, drink in hand.

The back room of the bookshop was lit with a side table lamp, a series of candles, and a smattering of glowing ethereal light specks that glinted lazily off the angel’s aura. This room had become so familiar to them over the last decade or two. Vintage wines and malts were tucked away for their drinking pleasure. Aziraphale’s records were scattered across the ornate writing desk, his new acquisitions unsorted in stacks about the place. Crowley was draped across the couch like a renaissance mistress being painted in her chambers. Aziraphale was tucked into his arm chair with a glass of white wine.

Aziraphale chuckled. “Aesop wasn’t real, Crowley.” He reminded.

“He was still a tosser. The rabbit and the-the. Turtle?” He was drunk. “Tortoise. Whatever. Slow and steady wins the race, eh? He couldn’t think of any better reason for the tortoise to have won? The rabbit fell asleep? Wha’ kind of melarchy is that?” He slurred, far too wound up about this plot point. “As if he couldn’t be arsed to finish the race.”

“I do believe that was the point.” Aziraphale argued patiently.

“I know the- the..” He forgot the word. “Stick-to-it-ive-ness was the bloody point but th-, He had to go and make the rabbit have narcolepsy- that was the only way the tortoise would’ve won, he was so bloody slow.”

“I’m sure the rabbit wasn’t narcoleptic, Crowley.”

“Depressed! The rabbit was depressed.” He looked very sure of himself. “Or narcoleptic. Had to go and set up a race between a tortoise and a neurodivergent rabbit. Ableism is what that is.” He accused with a dramatic hand wave.

Aziraphale shook his head. “It’s a fable, my dear boy. I’m sure you’re looking too far into it.” He soothed, taking a sip of his wine. It only occurred to him moments later that he had actually called him ‘dear boy’ again out loud. He frowned into his wine.

Crowley seemingly didn’t react to the name at all. “I just don’t trust that tortoise I tell you.” He continued. “He’s too.. too not supposed to be on land. Why can’t he just be a turtle? Tortoises aren’t right.. ‘Least then he could swim. Sounds a lot more fun than being two miles an hour on dirt for the rest of his life.”  
  
“That’s like saying all rats should be mice. Or all geese should be ducks.”

“All geese should be ducks. Have you met geese? Violent little buggers. They’re worse than swans! One minute you’re walking across the park and the next you’re getting heckled by angry geese charging at you like tiny emaciated bulls on two legs. Pffffffff...” He trailed off. “Ruin your lunch is what they do.” 

Aziraphale smiled fondly while Crowley rattled on about geese. He watched him gesture about in his over-exaggerated, fidgety way, and his thoughts trailed off to countless other conversations they’d had. And countless other times he’d been watching Crowley get worked up and thought to himself, ‘He’s so precious.’ He just felt so damned fond, and he finally entertained the wandering thought ‘I wish I could pull him into my lap while he’s talking’ again. That one was harmless. It very nearly fit into what they were doing now. The nurturing voice in the back of his head whispered that it would settle for just having Crowley’s head in his lap, where he could gently stroke his hair. He got to thinking about that hair. So many lengths, so many styles over the years. And just about every one of them had made him want to dig his fingers into it and stroke down to the scalp. He didn’t even know himself whether he wanted more to comfort or to tease with the gesture, he just _wanted._

“And all mice should be rats. You had it the wrong way ‘round. Rats are better. They freak people out more and they’re smarter than mice. Did I tell you about that time I filled someone’s office with rats?” Crowley asked, finally coming off his tangent about geese.

“Hm?” Aziraphale asked, realizing he had stopped listening and had been awkwardly staring while he got lost in thought.

Crowley snorted. “I know it’s easy to get distracted by all this gorgeous,” He drunkenly gestured to his face with a stupid (but cute) smirk on his face. “But no slacking on the job, angel. You’re s’posed to tell me how horrifying that is.” He scolded.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “You’re too much.” He admonished. “But I’m sure it was horrifying.” He added, to make him feel better. And because he liked how Crowley lit up when he was praised. Even if this was a questionable example of ‘praise’.

Crowley grinned wide. “I’m always too much. That’s why you like me.”

“There are a lot of reasons I like you.” Aziraphale responded calmly.

Crowley stretched. Well. Stretching for someone who’s mostly snake is a bit more like sickeningly casual contorting, but he unfolded himself as quickly as he started. He yawned over-dramatically. “I know.” Was the simple response. “You bloody softie.”

“I’m an angel. I can’t help being a softie.”  
  
“That’s bullshit and you know it.” Crowley smirked. “You’ve met the archangels. And Sandalphon. Myriad of other shitheads. Nasty pricks, those. I say that, and my old management was covered in flies and open sores.”

Aziraphale made a face. “Be that as it may, I maintain that you make it difficult to not be soft, my dear-..” He hesitated a moment too long when he caught himself saying it again.

“Your dear boy?” Crowley finished helpfully.

Aziraphale jumped in his seat a bit at that. He looked to the redhead with a bit of surprise and curiosity. He was met with a surprisingly calm and steady expression for how drunk the little serpent was.

“You can call me that. It’s fine, you know.” Crowley assured him. “You always seem to question yourself when you say it.” He pointed out. He sipped his beverage. “It’s dumb, angel.” He determined with… dignity and grace. And by spilling a little scotch on his shirt. Oops.

Aziraphale handed him a handkerchief from the ether without even thinking about it. “Oh, but it’s nonsensical. You’re much too old to call 'boy.'” He explained his own doubt out loud. It felt odd to hear them. 

“Who cares.” Crowley shrugged and took the handkerchief. He clumsily dabbed at his own shirt. “Call me what you want, Aziraphale. As far as pet names go. I still can’t believe it took you over five hundred years to get ‘Crowley’ right.” He snorted. “I’ve been calling you by a pet name for hundreds of years. _Angel._” He reminded.

Aziraphale softened hearing that response. “Oh, alright… My dear boy.” He sighed out.

Crowley grinned and set his glass down on the floor. “That’s me.” He basked in the attention for a split second. “See? That wasn’t too hard.” He praised just to tease and rile the angel up. “You think too much.”  
  
“Oh, hush. That’s why you like me.” He parroted Crowley’s earlier retort with a soft tone. “You managed to get me to question things. At least a little bit.”

“Mmm.” Crowley agreed. He yawned. He flopped dramatically across the couch. “Mind if I nap here for a bit, angel?” he asked.

“Not at all. I’d suggest sobering up though.” He reminded helpfully.

Crowley nodded and set his mind to doing just that. The scotch bottle on the desk refilled partially. “Would you miiind… getting me a blanket?” He asked in his best sweet voice. He really didn’t want to move right now and (while he knew the angel would probably say yes either way) he felt like he had buttered Aziraphale up a bit and he could likely coax more attention from him.

Aziraphale nearly melted. “Of course.” He grinned. He stood and pulled the tartan blanket from the back of his arm chair. “What do we say?” He asked playfully.

Crowley pouted. Really? Was Aziraphale trying to get him to use proper manners? “Please.” He huffed. He stretched out and gave a little lazy wiggle. ‘Cover meeeeee’ the wiggle said.  
  
Aziraphale fondly gave in and draped the blanket across the sleepy redhead. It was a hideous tartan blanket. Definitely not Crowley’s style. But it was soft and still warm from Aziraphale leaning into it. It smelled lightly of his shampoo and cologne. Possibly a hint of feather down. He immediately relaxed into it.

“Good night, angel.” He purred.  
  
“Good night, my dear boy.” Aziraphale responded. He turned out the lights, blew out the candles, and as he turned out the door he sighed contentedly, reveling in the sweet new pet name.


	2. Late Night Reminiscing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale reflects on the new pet name and otherwise gets hopelessly lost in thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my Lord I took almost a year to update oh moly oh my that's a long time oh boyyy.....

Aziraphale doesn’t sleep. Not often anyway. So while Crowley slept on the couch in the office, the angel decided to curl up in one of the armchairs up on the second floor of the shop, so he could languidly watch the clouds go by through the glass dome overhead, and read by lamplight.

Over the past week, he had been pouring though a collection he had received from an estate auction of Wilhelm Dithley books. He was a Victorian era German philosopher and psychologist at the University of Berlin. Aziraphale’s German was a little rusty, so it was a bit slow-going, but he was nonetheless enjoying the waltz through Enlightenment era philosophy again. By now he had worked through Dithley’s introductory volumes and the one about the ‘German Spirit’. He flipped through Volume Four, a biography of Hegel and his contributions to the field.

As interesting as he found the recap of Hegel’s life, what with all the tragic loss and all, tonight he found he just couldn’t focus on it. Not after the small, but oh-so-pleasant little new development between him and Crowley. Not that Crowley had made a big deal out of it at all. The pet name, that is.

“My dear boy..” He found himself murmuring to himself as he read the same sentence the fifth time over. He sighed at his tongue betraying him and his concentration. It wanted to taste the term-of-endearment’s warmth. After all, it was a perfectly innocent and natural term to call someone. Especially for someone that looked his ‘age’. His apparent physical age anyway.

He shook his head and slowly closed the volume. He set it on the ornate side table at his right hand. The blue-silver clouds rolled overhead, parting to reveal a few little glimmering stars as Aziraphale leaned back and took a deep breath in through his upturned nose to center himself again.

As he allowed himself to gaze at the night sky, he reminded himself that it was only himself putting all this age-related importance on one word. Most wouldn’t bat an eye at a white haired older man calling anyone ‘dear boy’. And Crowley didn’t mind or care, it seemed. ‘_Then why all the fretting over it after the fact?_’ He asked himself.

‘_Well,_’ his inner monologue had a reply. He practically heard that ‘_well,_’.

It was that he knew he meant and felt more than Crowley probably knew or would guess when he said it. Crowley wouldn’t know that it comes from the depths of his soul. That the slip of the word ‘_my_’ betrays his need to gather the demon in his arms. To… _protect_ and guide…

He laughed dryly to himself. Now that was a silly notion. Protecting. Guiding. Things he was terrible at as an angel. And things he knew Crowley had done for him countless times. It was _Crowley_. How much protecting did he really need? It’s not like he was ever locked in the Bastille. Or caught in a Nazi trap. Or if he had been caught in binds like that, he had slipped out of them with nary a word to Aziraphale.

And that was a thought that left a pang of guilt in Aziraphale’s heart. He wondered if there had been times Crowley needed help. Times he were scared or in trouble, with no one coming to his aid like he had for his angel. It’s not like Hell seemed to have a policy of workplace altruism or anything. It sent a pang of guilt and pain through him. There must have been. There must have been times he hadn’t been there for Crowley.

‘_Dear boy’… _

The moon peeked out from behind the clouds.

Aziraphale gazed at it wistfully. He vaguely remembered Michael herself shooting the asteroids into the moon that carved its biggest and oldest craters, under instruction of the Almighty Herself. He had always thought it was a very pretty rock, the moon. He had found it amusing waiting for humans to figure out that that’s all it was though. But now as he gazed at it, stuck in the train of thought he was, he found himself reminiscing about a night some two dozen odd years BC.

~~~

The moon glowed pearly white over the ocean of sand and earth. The dunes and hills were speckled with desert shrubs and trees, and a warm, dry breeze rolled through the air, sending the smoke from the campfire swirling in patterns up into the sky.

Aziraphale was on his way to Jerusalem. Crowley to Bethany. The pair had convened with a group of travelers outside Babylonia, a good three weeks of travel east from their destinations. Aziraphale distinctly remembered pushing away thoughts of being thankful that their assignments aligned well enough that he’d be assured some intelligent conversation on the long journey.

Crowley had been a vision then. She always was, mind you. But in the decades nearest to the Christ Crowley’s whims leaned just left of androgyny. The rivers of long, winding red hair that gleamed fiery orange in the sunlight... The slick, shimmery black wrap about her head and shoulders that never quite contained that head of hair. The chord about her waist that revealed her slender shape beneath the billowing robes. Not that Aziraphale generally lent much thought to the physical beauty of one sex over another, but he found it was always so… delightfully and unnervingly alluring the way Crowley flirted with and toed the line between either as she pleased.

The image of her in those decades wound itself into his mind and twined around his memories, toying at the parts of his mind he didn’t allow himself to dwell on. In simpler terms, he had found himself attracted to her. It wasn’t new, but it was distracting and the distinct tight feeling of forcing himself to remain calm was burned into his memory of the journey.

But so was this specific moonlit evening.

“Miss Crawley!” A young boy called with delight before diving between his uncle and father’s shoulders to escape his sister chasing him. He hopped over Aziraphale’s knee, who was sitting by the fire and his friend, to plop into Crowley’s lap. Said redhead ‘oofed’ with bemused, gruff surprise.

“Come play with us!” The boy requested with a big toothy grin, patting her shoulder excitedly.

“Such a roughian already, Isham!” Crowley laughed, tussling the boy’s hair and subtly praising the boy’s bad manners. Not that she ever seemed to mind how kids interacted with her.

“RoaAR!” Came a little girls voice. The little tot came barreling around her father’s shoulder, around the campfire and directly toward her brother. Crowley gasped over-dramatically and scooped the boy up, making a quick dash for ‘safety’. The clearer ground outside the ring where the adults were gathered about the fire.

“Run!” She whispered loudly to the boy as she set him down. He squealed and took off. Crowley did so in the opposite direction, albeit slow enough that the tiny little girl could catch up to her and pounce her leg.

“I got you!!” The girl squealed triumphantly. She then giggled at the dramatic ‘Noooo!’ she got out of ‘Miss Crawley’ and the playful little hiss and ‘roar’ that followed- Crowley declaring that she was now the monstrous ‘it’. The girl squealed and took off after her brother.

Aziraphale had watched the whole interaction with a level headed, measured sort of fondness. He had suspected since Noah’s arc that Crowley had a soft spot for children. Since then he had quietly watched for it. And sure enough, whenever he was fortunate enough to see Crowley interacting with kids, it was invariably endearing. Of course, he’d always get a justification about it later. ‘Oh, I’m encouraging them to get into trouble.’ Or ‘I was up to no good with them, see? We’ve left a nasty surprise for the priest to run into.’ That particular one was from an incident with a Mennonite priest getting a bucket of cactus juice and pulp upturned on him from a doorway, soaking his new set of robes. On paper, Aziraphale highly disapproved.

Now, Aziraphale smiled to himself. Crowley found herself squealing with delight at the chasing and tagging and pouncing right along with the children. They climbed up onto rocks, hid behind bushes, chased behind the grown ups’ backs, and occasionally wove between shoulders to cut across the circle. She was obviously having just as much fun as they were. Though he knew she’d never admit it after the fact.

Just when Aziraphale was watching Crowley and the little girl catch their breath, his attention was cut by a horrible scream.

His head whipped back to the campfire to find that the older brother had tried to cut across the circle again and tripped on someone’s shoe. He tumbled to the ground and got his sleeve caught in the campfire. The boy panicked and screamed. He screamed in fear, and a bit of pain. He was _on fire,_ after all. His sleeve was ablaze and even after leaping up and shaking his arm in a frenzy of panic the blaze refused to puff out.

“DADDY!!” The boy cried out for help.

The commotion left almost everyone frozen in shock. Aziraphale stopped short. Crowley and the sister froze in place. And the sister screamed when she saw what was happening at the fire. _Almost_ everyone was still.

Before Aziraphale could think or miracle the fire away, the boy’s father had sprung from his seat and yanked his son up and into his arms. The question ‘Miracle?’ had only just formed in the angel’s head by the time the father had already wrestled the boy’s shirt off of him and chucked it yards away from the other members of the group.

The boy was wailing. His shoulder was a little reddened from the heat. The burn wasn’t bad, but he was still terrified. And the father? The father was quick to gather his son into his chest and shush him with more calmness than he surely felt.

“Isham, Isham! You’re okay, I’ve got you. I’ve got you. You’ll be okay, Shhhh…” He cooed to the boy.

Aziraphale’s breath only then came back to him. He felt a flood of relief and thankfulness for that paternal sense of protection and fearlessness. He didn’t want to see a kid hurt just as much as anyone else, so he was glad someone could act faster than he could. And as soon as the relief washed over him he turned to look to Crowley, still standing beyond the circle about the campfire. By now, the boy’s uncle and a few others were standing and rushing to the child’s aid. Crowley slowly scooped the little sister up to console her, but Aziraphale caught that her gaze was locked on the boy and his father.

And that gaze struck a chord in him. He couldn’t place what that gaze said. What it meant. Concern was etched into her features, yes. But there was something else… Curiosity? Wistfulness? He struggled to place it.

Soon, the commotion died down. The father, uncle, and the children swiftly made to go to bed and tend to the boy’s wounds. Aziraphale made sure those wounds would be miraculously faded by morning. The others in the traveling troupe soon followed, the incident having killed the mood for any late night merriment to happen. And soon it was only Aziraphale and Crowley left to sit by the fire. Those who didn’t need to sleep.

For a while, silence lingered between them. The smoke from the fire swirled up into the sky and lazily played with the haze of glow around the glimmering moon.

“Do you think he’ll be alright?” Crowley eventually spoke up. She was still gazing into the sky, avoiding looking right at Aziraphale as she asked the clearly altruistic question.

Aziraphale however did turn to gaze at her as he answered. “I think so. He’s lucky his father acted so quickly. And I may have sent a miracle his way to make sure he heals up quickly… I suppose he’ll have to remember to be more careful in the future.”

Crowley nodded slowly and lowered her gaze to the flames instead. “You know I didn’t mean for him to run into fire, right?” She murmured.

Aziraphale felt the palpable weight of the question. It hung heavy in the air and the dual meaning of it wasn’t lost on him. “Of course I do. I don’t think you meant for him to get hurt.” He answered after a pause.

“I was just encouraging his rambunctiousness.” She murmured, slowly bringing her knees up to her chest. She wound her arms around her knees and plopped her chin onto one of them.

“I don’t blame you. And I don’t think his father would either.”

He was met with silent contemplation for a minute while Crowley watched the swirls of flame twist and cough smoke up into the air.

“It’s remarkable.” She mumbled.

“What is?”

“How fiercely parents protect their kids.”

And there it was. That wistful, distant look in her eyes again that Aziraphale found he couldn’t put a name on.

“It is. He had little Isham extinguished before I could react at all.” He agreed, his voice soft. She still kept her gaze away from his.

“Neat design quirk, that.” Crowley murmured at the fire.

“It’s not an uncommon one. Lots of parents are like that. Not just human ones.” He pointed out. Crowley nodded into her knee. Aziraphale could see the reflections of the firelight dance in those golden eyes as she got lost in deep thought about something.

She slowly reached out and touched the flames, allowing them to lick and play with her hand, leaving it completely unharmed. She drew her hand back out, holding a small little flame in her palm. The flame danced and looked almost happy sitting there in her hand. “I suppose he’ll be alright. Now that he’s fallen into a fire once he probably won’t get burned again.” She mused slowly. She let the little flame in her palm hop back into the rest of the fire.

Aziraphale followed her gesture with her eyes to look into the fire for a bit as well.

“He might be afraid of fire for a good long while. Caution could do him some good.” Aziraphale started. “But it’s not all bad. With fires and all. I always find it warm and comfortable sitting next to one, for instance.”

It took a few moments, but Crowley eventually chuckled at that. She finally looked at the angel and she gave him an amused little smirk. Neither of them needed to comment on his remark to know what he meant.

She eventually leaned back though. “And being able to see is pretty useful. But really campfires have never been my favorite night time light.” She sighed.

“What would that be?” He turned to her, relaxing, ready to sink into their usual, comfortable banter.

She gestured up with her chin to look at the moon. Aziraphale followed her gaze to admire it.

“It looks cold up there. On the moon. So I don’t know if I’d want to go there.” She mused. “Not exactly a vacation spot. But as something to look at… I do enjoy it. Better than firelight anyway. It’s less harsh. And they come up with such stories about it.

Aziraphale had to smile at that one. He had heard many fables and stories about the moon over the ages.

“Have you heard any good ones lately?” He invited.

Crowley smiled back at the invitation to just sit together and chat. To tell stories and lounge in proximity. She had scooted a tad closer.

“Alright. So I met this woman in Persia…”

~~~

When the sun rose in London, streams of light shown through the windows and the glass roof of the A.Z. and Fell bookshop.

Aziraphale had gotten very little actual reading done last night, after spending far too long reminiscing. So when those beams of light started streaming in he decided to peek into the office to check on the sleeping serpent sprawled on the couch.

Crowley was a mess of limbs and blanket and tussled red hair tangled into a rough approximation of a ball on the couch. Aziraphale almost giggled at the sight. He was still sound asleep. Foot up on the back of the couch, face squished against the armrest with an arm folded over his head. The other arm hanging off the couch. The blanket wound around him and falling off the couch all at once.

It was just a tad adorable. Aziraphale turned back out and headed back up the stars to get to his kitchenette.

When Crowley finally did begin to stir, There was a mug of coffee and a plate with toast and eggs already sat on the coffee table.

“Mnnngk?” Sleepy Crowley asked the plate when he opened an eye.

“Good morning, my dear boy.” came the soft answer. Crowley looked past the breakfast to find the angel in his favorite chair, already nursing a cup of cocoa with far too many marshmallows in it. The greeting was dripping with such warmth, and Crowley was still so sleepy that he replied with a happy little grin that he promptly tried to hide in the couch. “G’mornin…” he told the couch.

Aziraphale stood and paced over to Crowley. He hesitated about it, but he leaned down and he gave Crowley’s hair a little tussle. “C’mon, silly serpent. Time for coffee.”

Crowley hummed a long contented note. He twisted and fidgeted until he was lying straight again. “Thank you, Angel.” He eventually spoke a proper sentence. Aziraphale sank back into his chair.

“Anytime.”

The coffee was delicious. No sugar, but Crowley swore Aziraphale put something like cinnamon or hazelnut in it. And it was perfect.


End file.
